3.5. This is one of those books where some of what I didn't appreciate gets tied into a solidly written ending, but the ending is SUCH a bummer that I still didn't appreciate it that much. And to be fair it's a bummer in a particular way - someone ending up in a mental asylum for the rest of their life, regardless of how nice you make it, for completely avoidable reasons, is horrific! People really underplay how terrifying those institutions are.

I can imagine rating it a bit higher in a different mood, and maybe reading so soon after another book of hers also didn't help. In comparison to Oranges, the more mystical fairy tale type stuff is much more significant while the stuff I liked most, the well observed portraits of real humans, is much more minimal. Whereas that was grounded in her own experience, this isn't really grounded in anything at all - it's a hazy view of the Napoleonic wars and a Venice which is treated as basically just magical. That's fine! But I just didn't get on with it as much, mostly the Venice stuff. Again I feel like this is mostly personal, and mostly about my state of mind while reading it. It tries to tackle Big Stuff about human relationships but it feels a little unmoored? And there is interesting stuff there! Like the title says, it's a mediation on the nature of passion and how we experience it. Which is a cool subject. I just didn't feel it as much as I wanted to ( )

There is no doubt in my mind that this book deserves at least four stars despite the fact that it was soooooo not my thing. If you like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, read this book. It's actually better done, more interesting, and more engaging, but it shares that fantastical quality that I truly dislike.
The story follows Henri, a French young man who enlists in Napoleon's army, and Villanelle, an Italian woman who works in the casino. Both characters narrate the story and their lives end up intertwining in a way that leaves one character decimated (I won't spoil it by indicating which one).
Winterson does some very interesting things with her writing. Her imagery and lyrical use of language is very, very original and interesting. She can go very, very dark with a scene or a line, and you feel yourself gasping at the thought. She's intrigued me - - from Henri's job preparing endless chicken for Napoleon to Villanelle's cross dressing to another soldier's extreme long distance vision - - she draws the reader in. The plot doesn't really propel you. The details do.
Where I think she falters in this book is voice. Henri's voice and Villanelle's are really quite similar . . .in the end, it just all seems like one narrator even though it clearly is not. And of course, I hated the bits of magical realism. It's used judiciously and to make a point, but that didn't make me like it. It just reads as pretentious to me when it is supposed to be symbolic.
All in all, I honestly think this book would be absolutely amazing for an English lit class or an ambitious book club (mine is not) to dissect. There's a lot of layers of meaning and symbolism and motivations to discuss. The prose is unique and beautiful and compelling.
I'm not sorry I read it, but for me it was admirable, but not really pleasurable. ( )

For me, I felt the writing was trying to be quotable and thus felt a touch try-hard - the writing also made me feel quite removed from the characters and thus I felt detached from the story overall.
The first third of the book with Henri was tough to get through - I didnt care for it.
Villanelle had great promise for a character - but the way this story was set up and the writing just didn't do her justice.
There were so many heavy themes in the book but it just felt glossed over.
The "passion" also wasnt there for me. The closest it came was the married woman Villanelle had an affair with - but once againt there wasn't really any set up or substance.
and then the ending??? like wtf henri? ( )

Most mondok valami meglepőt: ez a könyv a szenvedélyről szól. Ha a címből nem is esett volna le, a szövegnél már biztos gyanút fogok: ezek a burjánzó, csurig töltött mondatok olyan lendülettel záporoznak az érzelmi idegközpontokra, hogy az már helyenként zaklatásnak minősül. Másrészt bár ez a regény névleg történelmi regény, de a korszak (a XIX. század eleje) csak operai díszlet, aminek alig van több szerepe, mint hogy kiemelje a szereplők játékát. Szóval aki elvárja egy regénytől az egyértelmű, lecsupaszított nyelvezetet, a használható történelmi információkat, és ódzkodik a jelzős szerkezetekben megnyilvánuló túlzásoktól, az óvatosan bánjon vele. Általában véve én is ilyen egyén vagyok, mégsem tudtam függetleníteni magam attól az eleven erőtől, amivel Winterson következetesen megteremti a szenvedély szövegterét. (Mondjuk nem is akartam függetleníteni magam.) Ráadásul Winterson azt sem felejti el, hogy a szenvedélynek, akár az érmének, két oldala van. Napóleon szereti a csirkét, a nép szereti Napóleont, a katonák pedig szeretik az örömlányokat – de mit szólnak az örömlányok a katonákhoz? Mivel hálálja meg Napóleon a nép szeretetét? Hogy a csirkék érzéseiről ne is beszéljünk… Szóval jó sűrű, színes-szagos próza ez, némi mágia, némi borzalom, és töménytelen szenvedély: egy rendkívül tudatos írónő rendkívül tudatos építménye. Ha sikerül elkapni az ívét, nagyon lehet szeretni. ( )

Odd and interesting and magical ( )